Fragile Bodies
by Anabella Night
Summary: A hard time has come for Harry when he cannot cope with the thoughts and images in his head. Who will save him from his misery? Will anyone be able to? WARNING: ANGST, SELF-HARM (different forms), SEXUAL THEMES, YAOI. (On hold for a few days due to personal reasons x)
1. Breaking

It was yet another day for Harry Potter, the 16 years old wizard, as he paced along the corridors of the ancient castle. Although his feet were focused on getting him to the dining hall, his head was in a completely different place. Last night he couldn't sleep at all, giving up the pointless lying in bed at around three o'clock in the morning and he has found himself in front of the fire in the common room, staring blankly into the dancing flames.

Fifteen years have passed since his parents have died. It has been five years since he had escaped the hell of living with his aunt and uncle at Privet Drive. He was searched for by the most dangerous wizard of today. Somehow, those thoughts never preoccupied him much – usually they would only pop up with a glance at a photo or during a skim over the newest issue of the Daily Prophet. But right now Harry couldn't get those thoughts out of his head – and there was even more.

The young Potter was never the one to care much about his appearance, with his round, seldom intact, glasses and unruly hair that even the best hairdresser could not tame. And that scar which he has learnt to live with. Since yesterday he couldn't stop thinking about the fact that everyone is judging, watching, calculating – what is going to be Potter's next move, who is his girlfriend, what kind of boxer shorts does he have on today? All of those questions, combined with the haunting faces of his parents, the Dark Lord, his two best friends and other people that were significant to him in one way or another blurred his vision to the point where he didn't realise his fingers were trailing over the blazing flame.

"Ouch." Harry whispered, and examined his fingers. Round, red spots covered the tips, and he has found that they did, for a split of a second, push away the feelings that were eating him up alive. It felt bad to be hurt, but it felt good to have an empty head. To see clearly. He could make out the individual faces on each of the mysterious paintings hung on the walls for that one split of a second. In that moment he recognised the slight difference in the hue of the red curtains and the red armchair that his friend Ron loved so much.

With every step he took he plotted what would be his excuse if someone notices the, now numerous, burns on his forearms. Nervously, he fidgeted with the sleeve of his jumper, feeling chilly despite the comforting, early autumn breeze, eyeing suspiciously any person that was passing him.

Harry was one of the first people in the Dining Hall. The only other guests were a group of Hufflepuff's second years and Draco Malfoy with his two side boys. Straightening his back and still pulling on the sleeve with his other hand, he closed the distance between the entrance and the table, sat down and looked at the ever-so-delicious food in front of him.

But today nothing looked delicious. Not the pumpkin juice, not the cereal, not the bread, not even the blueberry muffins he had at least twice a week. It all looked sort of bland and uninteresting to him. His stomach growled, but his mind was flashing him the image of Cedric's dead face, with those eyes opened wide like galleons, like they were about to pop out and follow him around till the end of his time. Slowly, he tried to reach out for a branch of green grapes, sprawled across the mountain of fruits like Zeus at Olympia, but something stopped him. He couldn't reach it. It was too far for him, he couldn't quite get a hold of it, the image of Diggory's eyes blocking his sight.

Helpless, he pushed himself up from the table and ran out of the Dining Hall, escorted by the few pairs of eyes that were present.

Tears welled up in his eyes and he had that funny feeling in his throat and stomach, the one where you know that you are about to cry, but you are holding yourself back. He wasn't going to cry. Harry hasn't got a reason to cry, Harry is stronger than that. Harry is courageous, brave and intelligent. Harry always puts others before himself. Harry is the perfect boy. The Boy Who Lived.

Minutes later he has found himself weeping on the floor of Moaning Myrtle's bathroom, on his knees, bent over so much that his forehead nearly touched the wet floor. His pants were soaked, and so were his shoes and socks – Myrtle forgot to turn of the taps once again. But his tears only added to the endless pool of crystal clear liquid, like a waterfall of feelings that he has kept inside of his heart for all those years.

Harry knew he was not brave, he was not courageous, and he was not perfect. He was weak, he was scared and he has had enough of always playing the hero, of always standing up for others, risking his life for the good of the rest of the magical society. For once, he felt like he had to take care of himself, that he has to take control of his own life, that he has to be himself. His eyes were all puffy and red, his breath in the form of short gasps and his almost silent cries hoarse as if he was screaming at the top of his lungs.

It was either minutes or hours before the tears stopped rolling down his cheeks and he has found enough strength to straighten up and take everything in. He noticed Myrtle eyeing him secretly from behind the doors of one of the cabins. His glasses were floating on the small puddle created by the joint efforts of himself and the turned on taps – but at the moment, they could be one and the same.

Harry's thoughts and predictions have come true. No one has bothered looking for him. He examined the position of the Sun outside – at least two hours have passed since he left the dormitory. No one has had enough time for him in their everyday lives to even question where he might be, whether he is alright, whether he's dead or alive. But as soon as something bad happens, they're all over him. Hypocrites.

"Myrtle, I can see you, you know."

The girl floated over to him and squatted down. "Bad day, huh?"

"No, I'm absolutely fine." The sound of his stuffy nose being sniffed echoed around the bathroom.

"Yeah, I've been fine for the past twenty years or so, too." Myrtle shook her head and straightened herself up. "I don't know, dear Harry, what is troubling you, and I'm not going to ask you. But you must know that once you show yourself like this to other people, there is no way back."

"What do you mean?" He looked up at her, questioningly, trying to make out the features of her face through the fog of leftover tears.

"They will keep on asking you if you're alright, if you have slept, if you have eaten, and at some point those questions alone will make you unable to be alright, unable to sleep and unable to eat." The girl turned away, gazing outside the window. "The questions will drive you mad, they will haunt you, you will walk on your tippy-toes through life so that they don't notice anything suspicious about you. They will question everything, from where you are going to to why did you choose to have green tea instead of black this morning."

"But doesn't that just show that they care?" Harry rubbed his eyes with the sleeve of his jumper, only making them redder in the result.

Myrtle let out a sigh. "Yeah, at first they do. But then after days and days it becomes a routine, they just ask to ask, they don't expect to hear anything new, they go about their business as usual. They stop noticing the subtle changes in your behaviour, they just question everything. And you become insecure." The girl twirled around with her arms spread wide. "And then you end up living as a ghost in an abandoned girls' bathroom."

Potter couldn't help but chuckle hopelessly at the last point Myrtle has made. "Please, can we keep this situation a secret? With no offence to you, I really don't want my future to be based on haunting people while they're doing their number twos."

The girl only smiled gently and slowly turned towards the cabins, drifting away weightlessly. "Of course, Harry. But in return, you must visit me often. Promise?"

"Promise."


	2. Fuming

Although it was a normal school day, Harry has not turned up to any of his lessons; instead, he could be found in his bed, with his head underneath the covers, rocking himself from side to side, eyes closed, trying to think of anything else than what was going through his head right now.

It was so quiet in the dormitory that his thoughts seemed to be shouted at him through a megaphone, as if every wall spoke to him, as if the floor creaking with every movement of the bed was telling him the same stories over and over again. Harry was numb. He didn't feel anything at all when he resurfaced from his hiding spot and began trailing the veins on his wrists with his burnt fingertips.

Some time later the doors have opened and in came a ginger head which automatically scrutinized the room, for a second locked its gaze at Harry, then spun around and exclaimed: "He's here!" Then came the sound of someone speeding up the stairs and next to the boy appeared a girl, at least a head shorter, with a bush of brown, curly hair surrounding her face. It was Ron and Hermione, finally done with their day of education.

Without further ado, the pair shut the door behind them and instantly plumped down on the side of Potter's bed, making the floor creak painfully. Harry flinched.

"Harry, where have you been? We've been worried sick!" Hermione's voice had that tone that she always used when she was both worried, angry and intrigued. "Ron told me you couldn't sleep at all tonight, are you feeling okay?"

For a second, Harry remembered the conversation he had with Moaning Myrtle just a few hours before, about the questions and concerns, so he decided to force a slight smile on his face and use on of the rehearsed excuses he has prepared in the morning.

"My scar was hurting me again, and when I went down for breakfast I felt a bit nauseous so I had to go to the bathroom and, you know…"

"But are you feeling better now, mate?" Ron's face seemed to take on the expression of relief, as if he previously thought that Harry might have flown away on a hippogriff into some unknown land. After Harry's reassuring nod his shoulders relaxed and slumped down. "Great! So I suppose you'll be coming down to dinner with us in an hour or so?"

"Here," Hermione shoved a stack of papers into Harry's lap. "I've made notes for you from today's lessons. Please, use them wisely, unlike Ron."

The ginger boy seemed offended. "What do you mean 'unlike Ron', huh? What did I do?"

"Last time I checked you were rolling them up in balls and throwing them around the Common Room like you were playing broom-less Quidditch!"

"But Hermione…"

Harry has had enough of the pointless banter. He couldn't understand how they could speak so freely about the silliest things when his own mind was tormented by thoughts and images so vile that he could hardly keep himself from screaming. He couldn't stand them, he wanted to be alone and he wanted to do what helped him the most at the moment – which was distracting himself with pain.

Unnoticed, he slipped away from under the covers and went into the bathroom, locking the door. With his hands rested on the sink he stared at himself in the mirror. It was f no surprise to him that his eyes were filled with sadness, that his lips were redder than ever because of the amount of times he has bit on them today. And suddenly, his face in the mirror started forming into the face of Sirius, and he could hear his late godfather yelling at him that it was his fault that Sirius has died.

With every passing second Harry recognised that everything that was going around him was his fault. His parents' death was his fault. Sirius' death was his fault. Cedric's death was his fault. It seemed as if he was the grim reaper and he collected the souls of innocent people. He was like the bad omen.

With his thumb and pointing finger he grabbed a lump of skin on his forearm and squeezed it tightly. It didn't feel as good as the burns, but the redness faded away quickly, which was definitely an advantage, seeing as sleeves don't always stay down like they're supposed to.

Harry was ripped out of his fascination with a sharp knock on the bathroom door. "Harry, are you alright?"

The boy jogged up to the toilet and flushed it. "Yeah, sorry, something's going on with my stomach." Harry opened the tap for a second, pretending to wash his hands and soon found himself back in the dormitory, with Hermione examining him up close.

"You're really pale, maybe you should eat something." She glanced down at her wristwatch and her expression softened as she lifted her head back up. "They've just started serving dinner, come on boys!"

Hermione linked elbows with each of the boys and pulled them towards the door and the staircase. On the way to the Dining Hall Harry blocked out the conversation his friends were having about the upcoming Quidditch match between Ravenclaw and Slytherin, instead trying to determine in his head whether Ron and Hermione even bothered to look for him, or whether they just assumed that he was safe and sound in the dormitory. What if… What if it suddenly occurred to him that it would be amazing to drown himself in the lake? Or maybe, just maybe, he would have the wild idea of going into the Forbidden Forest and angering the centaurs, getting stampeded over in return? What if he was hurt or in danger, and all that his friends could think about was a bunch of lads flying around on overpriced broomsticks?

Harry didn't even realise that he was already at the table, staring blankly into space, registering only the sounds of Ron devouring a chicken leg, and Hermione slurping on some pumpkin juice.

"Can you please do everyone a huge favour and just die already?" Potter suddenly shot up and exclaimed.

"Who just said that?!"

"Said what, Harry?" Hermione looked at him, confused. Harry was gasping, his hands clenched into fists, his teeth squeezed against each other. The scar on his head was pulsing like mad, but it was different to when Voldemort would connect to his brain. It was a voice, and he definitely heard it being outside of his head, as if someone has shouted it into his ear. But everyone around him just stared, perplexed.

A large, cold hand rested heavily on his left shoulder and Potter searched for the owner of it. Black, greasy hair with a matching robe, and those eyes that showed a peculiar, unidentified expression. "Mr. Potter."

"Sir?" The boy found it hard not to shout, scream or throw something at someone right now.

"You've missed your practical in Potions class today. Please come and see me at eight in my dungeon." Snape let go of Harry's shoulder and began retreating towards the teachers' table. "Also, please do try and not cause any injuries to any of your fellow students. The infirmary is full at the moment."

Furious, the boy grabbed a chicken leg from one of the silver plates and jumped over the bench. "I'm going."

"Harry, where're you off to?" Hermione started to get up as well, but slumped back down, clearly angry. "Ugh, does it even matter? You never tell us where you go to or what you are doing."

Potter left the hall and after a few minutes found himself at the edge of the lake, lying down amongst the green grass and punching the ground with his fists. It wasn't long before he drifted off to sleep.


	3. Discovering

"You know, I understand that being a goody-two-shoe is burdensome and you have to rebel from time to time, but can you not do it in a way which affects me as well?"

Harry's eyes slowly opened, adjusting to the darkness around him. When did it get so dark? The luminous moon was high in the sky, making the lake look as if it was covered in glitter. It took him a few moments to find the owner of the voice that has just spoken to him.

No further than two steps away stood a tall, platinum-blonde boy, with a complexion so pale that it seemed to refract the night away. Draco was dressed all in black, as usual, with a perfectly ironed dress shirt and a pair of expensive looking skinny jeans. With one hand on his hip, and the other playing with one of the buttons, he seemed to find the situation both hilarious and aggravating.

"I don't know what you're talking about." Potter finally stifled a yawn and sat up, stretching his arms up so high he could swear he felt the soft tingles of the browning leaves on the tree above him. One of his hands found its way to his dark brown hair and ruffled them slightly. "In what way does me sleeping on the side of the lake influence your life?"

The young Malfoy snorted and eyed Harry from his shoes to his wild hair. "You're not the only one who has happened to miss Potions today, and Professor Snape has surely mentioned to you in the Dining Hall that if either of us doesn't turn up, we'll have to come again tomorrow?"

Harry's eyes grew to the size of the pumpkins in Hagrid's garden. He has completely forgotten about the fact that the bat-like teacher approached him during the dramatic dinner. Letting out a defeated cry he rested his head in his hands. "What the hell is wrong with me?!"

"None of my business. Just make sure you turn up at eight tomorrow."

Once Harry found enough strength to lift his head back up, Malfoy was nowhere to be found and the moon seemed just a tad dimmer. The image of Voldemort rising at the cemetery appeared in front of his eyes like a bad Charlie Chaplin film, no sounds but just visions, all appearing to be sped up and intensified.

"You couldn't even prevent that from happening. You're pathetic." Potter recognised this voice – it was the same voice he heard in the Dining Hall. Petrified, he looked all around him, but he couldn't see anyone, not even in the dark shadows. "You're going crazy, Harry, you are, you are the worst, go kill yourself."

"No…" The boy pulled on his hair as hard as he could. "No…" His whole body shook rapidly, despite the pleasant warmth of the wind. "Stop talking to me! Get away from me!"

"You'd be better off dead." The voice continued despite his pleas. "All of them would be better off if you were never born!"

The images of all the people whose deaths he has witnessed started to appear one after another – Sirius, Cedric, his mom, his dad… Harry screamed at the top of the lungs, causing the birds to rise rapidly from the nearest tree. He screamed until he ran out of air, trying to block out the voice, but it was as if a tape was stuck on repeat, telling him to kill himself, to be dead for the sake of himself and others.

With his fists clenched he repeatedly punched himself – in the face, in the stomach, on the legs, just to get a break from those voices, but they were stronger than him. It wasn't long before he ran out of strength and collapsed, like a bag of potatoes, into the lake.

xxx

"Potter!" Harry felt his body being shaken furiously by a pair of strong hands on his shoulders. "Potter, for Merlin's sake, wake up!"

After a few coughs and a small whimper, those green eyes opened up, only to register a familiar face – but not the one he was expecting. The way the rising Sun illuminated his snow white skin made him seem unreal, as if Harry was only dreaming that he was here, and yet his body told him otherwise. Here he was, kneeling over Harry, with one knee on each side of the boy's body, with a frightened look on his face.

"Malfoy?" That one word was the only thing young Potter could push out of his mouth through the shock. He expected Ron, Dumbledore, Hagrid, Voldemort, even! But Malfoy? And with that look on his face?

"Don't you dare 'Malfoy' me right now!" His voice echoed around the empty grounds and his words seemed to be reflected by his silver orbs. Draco lifted his left leg and joined it with his right, resting on the side of Harry and capturing his forehead in his hand. A sharp exhale filled Potter's ears. "Seriously, what on earth probed you to throw yourself in that lake? If I found you a few minutes later you would have been dead!"

"What?" The boy seemed perplexed, and only then did he notice that his clothes were completely soaked. Drops of water escaped his hair and trailed down the ups and downs of his face, to finally disappear. His head was empty; he didn't remember anything from the day before, apart from the voices and the images. "Anyways, how did you know? Why did you save me? I thought you hated me."

"Hate is a very strong word, Potter." Malfoy rolled his shoulders back and forth a few times before rubbing his eyes with his fists. "It just happened to be a sleepless night for me, and as I was going up to the Prefects' bathroom I passed those two friends of yours who were looking for you in all the wrong places. So I rushed down here and here you were."

"Well, um, thanks, I suppose."

"No problem." Draco lifted himself up from the ground and extended his arm forward, as if waiting for Harry to grab it. The boy silently accepted the help. "I'm watching you, Potter. Don't do anything stupid."

"That is a bit creepy, you realise that, right?" Harry kicked a random rock which stood in his way and ruffled his hair uneasily. "Why would you care?"

"Potter, just think about it." Draco gave the other boy a meaningful glance which unfortunately triggered no response apart from a dumbfound look. Malfoy shook his head, defeated. "Everyone thinks we are, like, mortal enemies, right?"

Harry nodded his head.

"Exactly! So if something happens to you, anything, you choke on your food, you fall down the stairs, you burn yourself in Potions… Once they rule out the Dark Lord who is their next suspect?"

"…You are."

"There you go. That's why. Now sod off back to your dormitory and better have a good excuse for not spending the night in your bed for those two sidekicks of yours."

Before Harry could say anything in response, the only thing left of Draco was his glistering hair descending down the corridor. Helplessly, the brunette headed the other way, towards Gryffindor's Common Room.


	4. Understanding

Apart from receiving a very, very petrifying lecture from Hermione, accompanied by random nods and approving noises from Ron, Harry could say that his morning was quite pleasant. A slight pain in his chest and a horrendous headache kept him preoccupied for the first few lessons, a nice distraction from the voices.

Potter, however, couldn't help but distract himself with glancing at his saviour, Malfoy, every so often and just thinking what the blonde boy could be thinking at the moment. He was wondering so intensively that he missed the teacher's signal for dismissal and had to be dragged away by the elbow.

Some time around lunch the voice crept back up his ears and Harry found he had to excuse himself from his friends to relieve himself with a quick _Incendio_ here and there. Once he reunited with the small group he was asked a mountain of questions about whether he is alright and whether he was feeling sick.

"Does your head still hurt Harry?" Potter nodded in response to Hermione's voice. "Well, maybe you should go to the infirmary then. I'm sure Miss Pomfrey has a remedy."

"Thanks Hermione, but I think I'll be alright." He lied. "Besides, it's becoming more bearable now, I think it will be gone in an hour or so."

"Fine, but if it prevails then promise me you'll go, okay?"

"Sure." Harry ran his hand through his hair and noticed the back of Draco's hair in the distance. Before he could even start thinking about anything related, a ginger girl popped out in front of him. "Oh, hi Ginny."

"Hi Harry." The girl's cheeks have taken on a slightly redder shade. "How are you feeling?"

How many more times are they going to ask me this question, Harry questioned himself in his head. "I'm good, how about you?"

"Same…" Ginny was clearly looking for something else to say but failed and hurried off. "Well, talk to you later."

"Yeah."

Harry had a crush on Ginny for over a year now and yet, at this very moment, he couldn't muster up any feelings for her anymore. It was as if she was just another person in the crowd, insignificant, a stranger, even. He hated the fact that he felt this way, but at the same time he was glad that he drove her away, because that meant less questions and fewer people worrying about him.

xxx

The rest of the day passed similarly, with young Potter trying very hard to ignore both the conversations his friends were having and the conversations his own thoughts were having with each other. Thankfully, he was always the quiet one so no one found it suspicious that he hasn't participated in the chat much, and didn't take much notice when he slipped out of the armchair he was sitting in, at quarter to eight, to go down to the Dungeons.

He didn't know why he was so excited about going down there. He didn't fancy potions at all, Snape wasn't exactly his favourite teacher and Draco Malfoy was definitely not the person he wanted to spend his evening with. And yet, he was happy, or rather, as happy as he could be in the state that he was at the moment.

Harry pushed open the door to the Potions classroom which let out a slight creek, causing two pairs of eyes to focus on him.

"Mr. Potter."

"Sir."

The boy saw his partner in crime at the front of the room and decided to situate himself as far away as possible, settling at a table in the far left corner. Professor Snape stared blankly at him for a moment.

"Potter, don't you know this practical is a group one?"

"No, sir, you forgot to mention that."

"Well then, now that it has been said, I'm sure you will have no trouble locating the rest of your _group_." Snape took out his wand and wrote out the instructions on the board while Harry approached the front desk. He exchanged cold glances with Malfoy, gritting his teeth together to stop himself from saying something stupid. "You have two hours to complete your potion. When you're done, bottle it up and leave it on my desk." The black robe danced around as the professor retreated to his office. "And don't forget to clean up after yourselves."

It seemed as if both boys were waiting for the other to say something other than 'Pass me the knife' or 'Stir it clockwise'. In his distraction, Harry couldn't help but do the wrong thing most of the time – squeezing instead of cutting up, stirring thrice instead of twice, putting the ingredients into the cauldron in the wrong order…

"Potter, let me do this step." Malfoy pulled his wand out from his trousers and stirred the mixture with it, adding octopus powder. Harry has never seen the boy so focused in his life. "I'm pretty sure you would have mucked it up and then all our work would go to waste."

The brunette narrowed his eyebrows. "What makes you so confident that you're doing it correctly, _Malfoy_?"

"Well, I did get an Outstanding in my O.W.L." The boy kept on stirring until he was satisfied with the colour and consistency of the mixture. "Now we have to wait for five minutes for the powder to set."

"I thought you weren't good in anything apart from putting people down." Harry snorted.

"Don't underestimate me, Potter." Draco twirled his wand with his fingers, catching it before it nearly fell to the ground. "Say, Potter, we're not so different, you and I."

"Pardon me?" The brunette was quite certain that he has misheard what the other boy has said just now. "In what way are we similar?"

"People expect great things from both of us, you know?" The boy's long, thin fingers tapped a short rhythm on the top of the desk. He then looked Harry straight in the eyes. "But one of us will have to fail for the other one to succeed."

"You sounded like Voldemort just there." The prophecy played itself in Harry's mind, over and over again, each time becoming louder and squeakier, until no more words could be made out. The brunette grabbed his head in between his hands and let out a stifled growl. "I wish those voices would shut up."

"What voices?" Draco seemed thoroughly interested in his quirky way. "Potter going mad, that would be some story to tell! The Ministry would love to hear abo-"

"Don't you DARE tell anyone about it!" In a split of a second Harry's wand found itself probing against Malfoy's throat. Rage mixed with fear flown out of the boy's eyes, filling each and every cell of his body. "Try telling them and I will not hesitate." To accentuate his point, he pushed the wand a bit deeper into the skin, causing the blonde boy to yelp.

"What, are you going to kill me?" The rusty, breathless voice filled the room, and Draco's eyes fixed themselves on Harry's. "Go ahead; I have nothing to live for anyway."

Surprised, Potter let down his wand, although his heart was still racing dangerously. Neither of the boys broke the eye contact – it was as if the two of them were speaking with their eyes and their eyes only. The room seemed to shake from the intense messages they were sending each other. Finally, Malfoy spoke up.

"We have to finish the potion." Harry just nodded his head softly and watched as the other boy fulfilled the last steps of the instructions, filled a flask with the potion and laid it down on Snape's desk while he put the equipment away. "What's that on your arms, Potter?"

The brunette just realised that the sleeves of his jumper rolled down as he was placing the cauldron on a high shelf. Embarrassed, he pulled them down and held them. "Just bruises from Quidditch practice."

"Liar." Draco walked up to the shorter boy and pulled Harry's sleeve up, shortly after pulling up his. A deep, black Dark Mark decorated his left forearm, and its eyes seemed to drill into Potter's eyes as he stared at the image in shock. "We all have our secrets, Potter. Funnily enough, our ones seem to hide in the same place on our bodies." The boy grabbed Harry's forearm firmly and trailed over the burns, making Harry hiss. "Those ones were caused by a spell, but those ones are real fire burns." Instantly, Draco's right sleeve rolled up and Harry could trace over the numerous, red lines across the blonde boy's arms.

Harry stared at the scars until the sleeve rolled back down. "Say, Potter," the boys looked one another in the eyes for the last time. "This is not me proposing to be friends or anything, don't get the wrong idea… But maybe we could help each other cope." The brunette's eyes grew to the size of galleons. "I have some good ways of coping that I have collected over the years."

"…Alright." Harry grabbed his bag and flung it over his shoulder, directing himself towards the door. "But we can't tell anyone about this agreement, understood?"

"Potter, I'm evil, not stupid."

The young brunette just chuckled and, in a much better mood, headed towards his Common Room.


	5. Plotting

Despite the arrangement from the previous day which significantly raised Harry's mood, the boy found himself so depressed that he was unable to lift himself from his bed the following morning. His head was filled with the voices even more intense than before and he cried so hard that he had to bite on his pillow to stop anyone from noticing.

"Harry, what's wrong?" Hermione's hand gently stroked Harry's shoulder. The boy screamed at her through his tears.

"Everything's wrong, nothing's okay and I'm feeling like shit so how about all of you just leave me alone and fuck off!" His dark brown hair was the only thing visible from under the covers now. Potter could sense the tears creeping up his best friend's eyes, but he felt no remorse whatsoever. Hermione mumbled something about stopping to be friends with him until he treated her with respect, followed by a slam of the door. The brunette just kept on crying and decided he was not leaving the room today.

Xxx

The Sun was central in the sky by the time that Harry realised he was absolutely starving. One glance in the mirror told him that he was unfit to go to the Dining Hall – his face was so red that people would speculate about the amount of Firey Whiskey he has drunk or, in the best case scenario, he could pass off as a nice, ripe tomato.

He was pulled away from the inspection of his face by a knock on his window. Harry quickly spun around and noticed it was a beautiful, black owl which had some slight silver undertones to its coating. The boy rubbed the bird's head for a while after retrieving the letter from its beak and soon it flown away back to the Owlery.

The bed creaked wildly as Harry sat himself down on the edge and took out the letter from the envelope. It lacked all of the formalities that a regular letter would have, instead sporting a beautiful calligraphy of letters, all written in green ink.

_I haven't seen you in classes today._

_If I don't see you before dinner, I am going to look for you, find you and tell you just how worried I was about you._

_I'm heading to the Dining Hall now, care to join me?_

Signed, Draco. For Harry it were those little things that mattered to him the most. Not the constant half-hearted questions from his so-called best friends, not the unsuccessful cheering up they tried to conduct on him. He felt better knowing that there was someone who felt similarly to him and who was interested in how he was feeling not just for show and because that was his duty, but because he was genuinely concerned.

The brunette's face cooled down a little by now, so he threw some clothes on – just a jumper and some trousers – ruffled his hair and he headed down to the Dining Hall.

"Mr. Potter." Professor McGonagall approached Harry as he was going down the stairs. "Why have you missed my Transfiguration class today?"

"I'm not feeling very well, professor." Harry pulled on his sleeves as usual, although the marks have nearly faded by now. Right now he just wanted to see Draco, he didn't know why because just a few days back he hated the git with all of his heart, but right now he felt closer to him than to anyone else in the school.

"Maybe you should go visit the Infirmary then and try to not miss any more of your classes." The witch began to pass Harry on the stairs. "You're in your sixth year now; there is no time to lose."

"Yes, professor." He dismissed and sped up towards his destination, his heart racing at the imminent meeting. Just a few steps from the door, however, he halted abruptly. He and his friends had an argument so he couldn't sit with them. On the other hand if he just goes up to the Slytherins' table it will seem suspicious and might even be dangerous. Harry looked for a solution for a few seconds, finally mustering up an amazing idea.

As he strolled into the hall he was glad to notice that everything was going according to plan. Although the Gryffindors looked expectant for him to sit with them, Harry instantly turned right and headed for the last table, getting a few whispers, both approving and disapproving, as he tried to locate the blonde head he was looking for.

Having found it, he found himself next to Draco in a matter of seconds. The boy played well, not taking even the slightest notice of Harry standing behind him. The brunette knew he also had to play his part well for this to work out.

"Malfoy." His voice was nearly as full of venom as it used to be when the two despised each other. The other boy turned around, maybe just a tad too quickly and eyed Harry from top to bottom.

"Potter." This gathered the attention of nearly everyone in the Dining Hall. Both boys swallowed harshly. "What do I owe the _pleasure_?"

"Professor Snape asked me to tell you that our Potion from yesterday is not up to his standard and that we must see him in his Dungeon immediately."

"Fine." The blonde boy got up from the bench and nodded to each of his friends, probably suggesting that they shouldn't go with him as he could handle Potter alone. In complete silence, the two boys left the hall, accompanied by a few hundred pairs of eyes. Draco allowed himself to be led the way by Harry who, instead of going to the Dungeons, went up to Moaning Myrtle's bathroom.

Potter shut the door behind the two of them and searched for the ghost that resided here. "Myrtle, are you here?" With a splash from one of the toilet bowls, the girl swiftly flew over to examine the pair. "Is anybody else in here?"

"No, Harry, it's just the three of us." Myrtle sat down on one of the taps and stared, intrigued. "I've seen each of you separately many times, but never together."

"Well, I don't think anyone has." Harry chuckled and looked around, finally deciding that the window shelf was a good place to rest. Somehow, and he just realised this, when he was with Draco, the voices didn't bother him as much – not that he would say that to him. "So, _Draco_, tell me just _how_ worried you were about me."

"Well, _Harry_, I was so worried that I transfigured my book into a giant spider instead of a ladybird." Malfoy straightened down his black shirt, which was already straight beyond belief, and looked up at Harry in a peculiar way.

"Why are you looking at me like that?" The brunette questioned, slightly scared. It was a look that he has never seen on Malfoy's face and only Merlin knew what on Earth the boy was thinking about. "Stop it, you're creeping me out!"

"Maybe one day I'll tell you." Draco jumped off of the window shelf and strolled over to the taps. He lifted his shirt up and examined himself in the mirror. Only then did Harry notice how awfully skinny the boy was – you could see all of his ribs and his hipbones stuck out like two razors. "I'm so fat."

Potter choked on his saliva. "But you're all skin and bones!" He watched as Draco picked on the last few remaining bits of fat on his body. "Do you not eat at all or something?"

"Bingo, Potter." The shirt dropped down and Malfoy walked back over to Harry, standing right in front of him. "Hunger shuts off the thoughts."

"What thoughts do you have?"

"You go first."

"Well… For me it's just the constant blaming myself for everything…" Tears welled up in Harry's eyes, but he tried to fight them back. "Seeing all of the faces, hearing their last screams, thinking it could all be prevented if only I wasn't such a loser…" He sniffed and looked at Draco. "You?"

"…I'm not telling you."

"Why?"

"Because you wouldn't understand."

…

**Author notes:** Anyone wants to have a go and try to guess just what Draco's thoughts are?


End file.
